I'm Here
by GloriousBlackout
Summary: When Bucky is haunted by his past actions in his nightmares, Steve is there to comfort him when he wakes up.


**A/N - I'm still considering continuing 'The White Room', but for now here's a quick one-shot that I couldn't get out of my head. I hope you enjoy and, as always, any feedback is appreciated :)**

 _Disclaimer: I still don't own Marvel, which is probably for the best._

* * *

 _Bucky was dreaming._

 _It was the only explanation he had for waking on a deserted highway in white hospital scrubs, with his left arm a bloody stump at his side. The pain he expected from it didn't come, and for that he was grateful, but the knowledge that he was dreaming was apparently not enough to wake him. He supposed he could wait and watch grey clouds move across the sky as ash rained slowly down upon him, but curiosity demanded he get up. Further down the road may lie a forgotten memory or a much needed jolt back to reality._

 _He got to his feet shakily, unused to the lightness of his left side. The ash had left a grey blanket on the road's surface and the highway itself stretched further than he could possibly see, even on a clear day. He took a single step and an uncomfortable heat told him that his feet were bare._

 _Nothing changed as he walked. The air remained thick with ash that burned his throat, but he could see no sign of its source. The road stretched endlessly and the air was eerily silent; Bucky could not even hear himself breathe although his heart hammering in his chest told him he must be alive._

 _The first sign of change came when something cracked under his foot and pain blossomed, and he looked down to see a shattered skull staring up at him._

'I killed you'. _The thought came to him unbidden, despite the fact that he could hardly tell who the skull had once belonged to. And yet, all it took was the sight of a bullet hole in the temple to bring back memories of a metal finger tightening around a trigger, and he knew the notion must be true._

 _He walked on. More skulls were scattered across his path; empty eyes facing him from all directions, accusing him silently. Bucky ignored them. They were long dead - they could not hurt him._

 _Before long the broken skeletons were replaced with fleshy bodies in varying states of decay; some recognisable, most not. He could attach names to some of the faces, although he could not recall ever learning them, and for each one he passed the mantra of '_ I killed you' _continued over and over in his head._

 _Ash continued to fall over his surroundings and yet the bodies remained unburied as if they'd been piled along the road mere moments before._ _He passed an overturned car with two motionless passengers and a heavy weight settled in his chest as he took in the slumped form of the driver. He quickly turned away, but not before seeing an outstretched hand twitch against the open door._

 _After what felt like hours, he stumbled upon a body whose presence didn't seem to belong._ 'I didn't kill you' _flashed across his mind, as easily as the opposite accusation had done for the countless bodies beforehand, but Alexander Pierce's eyes stared emptily at him anyway as blood spilled from his chest. Bucky almost wished he had been_ _the one_ _responsible for_ _his death,_ _but the thought brought with it_ _a feeling of_ _horror that Pierce didn't deserve._

 _His old handler didn't matter. Bucky knew he had to move on, but the thought unnerved him. The road continued to provide no end, and he found he was no longer certain he was dreaming. Perhaps he had died and this was his penance. Perhaps he was trapped eternally with the ghosts of those he had killed. That was what he deserved, he_ _knew_ _._

 _He didn't notice at first that the ground had become wet, but when he looked down his bare feet were dyed red and blood_ _had_ _spread out over the grey ash. It was almost a beautiful sight in this bleak world; the dark red a stark contrast to the dullness of its surroundings. Looking up provided no such_ _beauty however, and Bucky almost collapsed at the sight of dried blood staining faded blue fabric._

 _Steve's face was turned away, but that provided little relief as Bucky saw the wounds that had killed him - the bullet holes in his leg and stomach and the tear in_ _his_ _shoulder where the knife had slashed._

 _And yet, that was wrong. Steve hadn't died that day, Bucky had saved him before he'd ran, he would surely have remembered if he'd completed his mission..._

 _He could remember causing those wounds, however. He could remember pulling the trigger;_ _his_ _sick sense of satisfaction_ _over the knowledge that_ _the bullet_ _had_ _hit_ _and_ _that his mission was nearly over. He could remember fighting the man-on-the-bridge as surely as he remembered delivering the killing blow to all the bodies who had come before._

 _Only this kill hurt him more, had his breath trapped in his chest and tears burning at his eyes. Out of instinct, he reached out_ _with_ _his left arm to touch, but the sight of_ _his_ _stump greeted him instead. That was wrong too – the stump had been replaced with a killing machine many years ago – but he had no time to dwell on that._

 _Reaching out with his right arm this time, he barely managed to touch cool skin before Steve's arm la_ _shed_ _out and grabbed his own, and he was faced with an icy blue stare. Bucky shouted in alarm and threw himself backwards, but before he could free himself he could feel more hands grabbing at him. Cold hands clutched_ _at_ _his arms and legs and grabbed at his face as if trying to tear it away, and every time he fought one off it seemed two more_ _had_ _joined i_ _n_ _. Some of the_ _hands_ _had worn away to bone and when they scratched at him blood oozed from his broken skin, but he could feel no pain. Only the cold._

 _A phantom joined the fray, clutching at his right arm tighter than the rest, but when Bucky looked he found nothing there. His attackers remained persistent, despite his feeble attempts to shake them_ _off,_ _but for all their numbers they remained as silent as a breeze. The only noise came from within his own mind; a constant_ _cry_ _of '_ I killed you. I'm sorry, I killed you...' _He thought he could hear someone shout his name, but that made no sense. Dead men couldn't speak._

 _A fleshy hand covered his eyes and all went black, and Bucky was finally aware that he was screaming._

* * *

A high ceiling replaced the sight of ash raining from the sky and cold hands, but Bucky found himself unable to move. He could still feel the cold, wet imprints the hands had left on his skin. The pressure on his right arm remained, along with a constant mention of his name, but he found he was paralysed and could not push them away. He remained staring at the ceiling, unblinking, his breath escaping in short gasps. Perhaps the pressure would go away if he waited and the voice would stop, but he would be helpless until that moment.

The pressure finally lifted only to be replaced on his cheek; lighter and less-suffocating and yet all too reminiscent of the cold hands of those he had killed. The voice was clearer now too, but it came from the mouth of a ghost.

"Bucky? Bucky, please, come back to me..."

 _He's dead._ Bucky remembered, he had seen the man lying on the road with all the rest. And yet, none of the others had spoken.

"Breathe, it's alright. I'm here, I'm still here."

Bucky wanted to believe him so badly. Experience told him that this was a trick sent to torture him, but he would give anything for that not to be the case. The sound of Steve panicked was not one he would normally wish to hear, but it was better than nothing at all.

He coughed, and the burning in his chest told him it had been a while since he'd breathed normally. To his relief, he found that he could blink and his frozen stare finally left the ceiling and landed on the familiar man at his side, who seemed pale and concerned but otherwise alive; wonderfully so.

"Steve?" Bucky's voice came out in a weak croak but it seemed to be what Steve had been waiting for, as he gave a weak smile and started lightly stroking Bucky's cheek. The touch still felt uncomfortably similar to those that had come before, but Steve's hand was warm where the others had been cold and intent on causing pain. Bucky found himself leaning into the offer of comfort. "Wha' happened?"

"You had a nightmare. You were screaming, but I couldn't wake you," Steve's voice had the feigned calmness that a worried parent would give a sick child, but his eyes betrayed the fear he'd felt moments before. Bucky made no mention of it; he was too relieved that what he'd seen hadn't been real. Already the details were starting to fade from his mind. If he was lucky, he would forget the dream entirely. "You're okay now. It wasn't real, Buck."

"I thought..." One image couldn't remove itself entirely from his brain, and even just thinking about it seemed to transform the soft sheets into a bed of ash. "I thought I'd killed you."

Steve's hand stilled on his cheek, and for one horrible moment Bucky thought this quiet moment would shatter and he'd find himself back on the highway with no way to escape. His growing panic did not escape Steve, who carefully pulled away from Bucky's cheek and took his right hand instead, before bringing it to rest over his chest. Even through the fabric of his t-shirt, Bucky could feel a strong heartbeat that hadn't belonged in that world of the dead. Steve let go, but Bucky let his hand linger, needing that confirmation of life just a little longer.

"I'm right here," Steve assured him, as if his heart wasn't enough. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

Bucky laughed weakly; still shaken by his dream, but safe at least in the knowledge that Steve was with him. The dry taste of ash and the sensation of ice on his skin melted away, and he was suddenly very aware that he was exhausted.

He let his head fall back onto the pillow (which still felt too soft after all these years, but he had grown used to it) and looked up at Steve, who seemed to have calmed considerably himself in those last, quiet moments. "Stay with me?"

Somehow, he didn't think he needed to ask. Steve climbed under the sheets and wrapped his arms loosely around him; seeming to relax slightly when Bucky didn't protest at their closeness. Sleep came easily after that, with the constant reminder that he was not alone and that Steve was here with him; whole and alive.

That knowledge was enough to guarantee that the rest of the night passed by uninterrupted, while Bucky slept better than he had since before the war and Hydra had stolen his youth.


End file.
